“You haven’t told anyone about your parents, have you?” Mr. Sutton said quietly.
Paul suddenly wished he was anywhere but here. He wished Mr. Sutton would shut up and get lost and quit hassling him. He nurtured that thought, thawing himself with anger. It felt good to think thoughts like that. He looked down at the ground and kept a furious silence.
“I’m worried about you, Paul,” Mr. Sutton said. “You’ve been trying to handle everything by yourself ever since you got here. You need to trust somebody.”
Paul couldn’t help a short, nasty laugh at that.
“Is that funny?” Mr. Sutton asked.
“No, sir,” said Paul in the same dry, mechanical way he’d spoken to Mr. Harrison. “Sorry, sir.”
Mr. Sutton heard the tone in his voice, and was defeated. He was smart enough to know there would be no getting through to Paul now. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure you think it’s none of my business.”
That’s right, thought Paul. That’s exactly right. None of your business.
They approached the science block, an unremarkable rectangular two-story building with a flat roof. Apart from the science labs, it also housed the technology department and workshops for metalwork and woodwork. The elegantly designed sports hall off to the left made it look drab by comparison.
They went through the doors to the science block and into the foyer, where swinging doors led into different corridors and a set of stairs led up to the floor above. There they stopped. Mr. Sutton looked awkward.
“Yes, well, then,” he said, wearing a troubled expression. “I suppose you ought to get to class.”
“Right,” said Paul, and headed off. He was just pushing open the doors when Mr. Sutton said, “You should thank Mark, by the way.”
Paul stopped in the doorway. “Who?”
“Mark Platt.”
Paul looked blank.
“You saw him in the corridor just a minute ago. Outside Mr. Harrison’s office.”
It all fell into place suddenly. The skinny kid with too much forehead. “What about him?” Paul asked.
“He stuck up for you. Told me what happened.”
Paul was genuinely puzzled. They had a couple of classes together, but he’d never even spoken to Mark Platt. “What did he say?”
“He said that Adam started it. That he threw the first punch.”
“Well, he lied, then,” said Paul. “’Cause that was me.”
Then he walked through the door, and let it swing shut behind him with a thump.
Adam Wojcik had learned early on that life wasn’t fair, but somehow he’d never been able to accept it. A childhood full of small injustices had made him constantly suspicious, always on the lookout for the next insult, the next blow, whether real or imaginary. He sought out reasons to get mad. He nursed his grievances and held his grudges close to his chest. The world to him was a mean and unforgiving place, and you had to fight at every opportunity to defend the respect you’d gained. Otherwise people would just walk all over you.
Today was a perfect example. People talked about “innocent until proven guilty” but somehow that didn’t apply to him. It didn’t matter that most of the time he was guilty. The times when he wasn’t, nobody believed him. So what was the point of behaving yourself if you were just going to get blamed for everything anyway?
He felt bitter enough when they accused him of something he did do. It was twice as bad when it was something he didn’t.
Adam stamped away from the school building with his fists stuffed in the pockets of his blazer. Smaller kids moved surreptitiously out of his way, recognizing the look on his face. He barely even saw them.
All he’d been doing was defending himself! That Camber kid had punched him! Was he supposed to sit there and take that? So what if he’d said something about Paul’s mother first? Whenever Adam hit someone for insulting him, it was all “You can’t use your fists to solve your problems” and that kind of crap.
But Harrison hadn’t even bothered asking for his side of the story. Naturally.
Confined to dorms, then. As if they were gonna keep him inside for the rest of term. Maybe he’d have to keep his head down for a few days, but there was no way he was staying in for three weeks just ’cause some teacher said so. He wasn’t taking a fall for something that wasn’t his fault.
When things weren’t fair, you had to make your own justice.
Lost in frustration, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going. He just wanted to put distance between himself and the school. Now he found himself heading back toward the lake, which lay in a hollow at the southwestern edge of the grounds, invisible behind the small wood that encircled it. On the edge of the woods was the old chapel, gnawed by time into a fraction of its former glory. There, hidden in the ruins, he spotted a group of three kids clustering excitedly around something that one of them was holding.
Adam sensed a secret. And if there was one thing he didn’t like, it was being left out.
He changed direction and headed toward them. His mood lifted in anticipation. A few seconds ago he’d been seething with rage at what had been done to him, but now he saw an opportunity to take it out on someone else. He couldn’t pay Harrison back, so he’d pay it forward. That was the way it worked: the academy’s very own food chain, with the strong preying on the weak. Mr. Sutton would have been proud of his observation.
He wondered if the teachers ever thought that by punishing him they were only making it worse for kids like these? Probably not. And even if they did, they’d somehow make out that it was Adam’s fault.
He recognized two of the kids from the biology class that morning. One had flaming acne, braces, and spiky hair; the other had a long face and enormous gums that suggested at least one of his parents had been a horse. Adam didn’t know their real names, only the nicknames he’d bestowed on them: Pusbag and Buckaroo.
The third kid was a massive, flabby, milky-looking thing whose tiny eyes had disappeared in the folds of his cheeks. Adam was amazed that this new kid had passed beneath his notice for so long. It seemed that Pusbag and Buckaroo had made a new friend.
Well, a kid like that needed a nickname. Jabba was already taken, as were Slug and Hungry. Adam wasn’t feeling especially creative, so he just christened him Planet. A kid that size must surely generate his own gravity, presumably enough to attract any nearby snacks.
They didn’t spot him till it was far too late to run. They tried to hide what they’d been looking at, but it was too late for that, too.
“What you got there, then?” Adam demanded.
They stared at him, pale and fearful. Like rabbits caught in the headlights of a car.
“Give it here,” he said.
They glanced at one another uncertainly. Adam slapped Buckaroo round the side of the head. Planet took a quivering step back. He looked ready to wet himself.
“Give it here,” Adam said again, with more threat in his voice this time.
Buckaroo held out what he’d been hiding. A Tupperware box, like the kind you kept your lunch in. Adam snatched it off him.
“Don’t open it!” Pusbag squeaked as Adam was about to do just that.
Ordinarily that would have earned another slap, but something in his tone stopped Adam. He shook the box, and felt something small and heavy sliding about inside. “What’s in there?”
None of them were brave enough to speak first. Nobody wanted to invite his attention. He had half a mind to hit them all.
“A beetle,” said Pusbag at last.
“A rare beetle,” Planet chipped in breathlessly.
Adam scoffed. “A beetle?”
“We found it during class,” said Buckaroo. “Down by the lake. It wasn’t on the checklist, so I scooped it up with my sandwich box.”
Something scuttled inside the box. If that was a beetle, it was a bloody heavy one. He held the box up to the clouded sun. Through the plastic, Adam could see the shadow of something the size of a mo
use. Bigger than any beetle he’d ever seen, that was for sure.
He put his hand on the lid to open it. “Careful!” Pusbag said. Adam gave him a warning look and he shut up.
“Let’s see what you got,” he said. He lifted up the lid a little and put his eye to the crack.
A sudden movement; a flash of silver. The beetle jumped at his face. Instinctively, Adam jerked his head back, letting out a yell of surprise. The beetle thumped into the lid of the box and it tumbled from his hands, breaking open as it hit the dirt. The other kids cried out in alarm, but none of them moved.
Adam looked down. The box and its lid had parted company. Between them was the beetle, lying on its back with its six legs waving helplessly in the air. It was huge, four inches long or more, and its carapace had a gray metallic sheen.
He didn’t look at it any closer. He stamped on it hard, and felt it crack beneath his shoe. When he raised his foot again, Planet let out a moan of dismay. He’d crushed it flat.
Adam’s face was hot with anger. He’d been shown up in front of these wimps. Scared by a beetle.
In the distance, the bell rang to signal the end of break. He glared at the other kids, who blanched and cringed from him. None of them dared to laugh. If anyone did, he’d break their jaw.
Without another word, he stalked away. There was nothing left to be done.
“Pass it! Pass it!” Miss Watson shouted at the players on the court. “Hayley! Defense!”
The squeak of rubber soles on the polished floor echoed within the sports hall. Caitlyn passed, ran, then took the return ball. A moment later, Hayley, the opposition center, was in her face, trying to block her. Hayley was quick, but she couldn’t defend to save her life. Caitlyn feinted one way and then fired a bounce pass to her left, where Beth had dropped back along the court to receive. As soon as the ball left her hands she was off again, looking for space.
“That’s good movement, Caitlyn!” called Miss Watson. “Come on, everyone! You’re standing around like dummies! This is netball, not cricket!”
Beth had dithered so long that her three seconds were almost up. Caitlyn ran to the edge of their opponent’s goal circle, but by the time Beth saw her she’d been cut off by the goal defense. Instead, Beth sent a cross-court chest pass to Soraya on the other wing, who almost dropped it before she got it under control. By that time, her opposing number was all over her, so Caitlyn repositioned, making herself available to her wing attack in case she needed somewhere to send the ball.
Stop, start, stop, start. The jerky rhythm of the game. The cool air of the spacious hall versus the heat and sweat on her skin. So what if this was just a practice runaround? There were few things that Caitlyn enjoyed more than a hard game of netball, and she took it seriously. Netball was something she was good at. Really good.
But not the best. Never the best. Not while Erika Robinson was around.
Erika was in the goal circle, where she spent most of the game. Erika played goal shooter, of course. It was the role of greatest glory, the team’s primary goal scorer. She was also irritatingly good at it, but then, she was irritatingly good at everything.
Erika Robinson. Where Caitlyn was bony and sharp-faced, Erika was lithe, long-legged, and immaculately proportioned. Her blonde hair was pinned back from the icily gorgeous Scandinavian features she’d inherited from her icily gorgeous Scandinavian mother. She was the star of the netball team, a straight-A student with the looks of a model, except without the anorexia. Erika Robinson, Little Miss Bloody Perfect.
Soraya didn’t have an angle on Erika in the circle, so she passed back to Caitlyn, who was just inside the opponent’s goal third. As soon as the ball hit her hands she was turning to throw it back to Beth, the only other player on the team who was allowed to shoot apart from Erika. But Beth had gotten herself blocked off again. Caitlyn hesitated for the briefest of seconds.
“Give it to Erika!” Miss Watson yelled.
Give it to Erika, Caitlyn thought, with a surge of anger. Yeah, I’ll give it to Erika. Sixty miles an hour in the face.
And for one wild moment, she actually thought she’d do it. Sling the ball hard, smack her in the nose, black her eyes. Lord, that’d feel good. That’d be worth any punishment that followed.
But a moment was all it was. Erika shifted to the right to lose her marker. Caitlyn anticipated the move and put a pass straight to her. Erika pivoted and took the shot.
She scored, of course. Miss Watson blew her whistle, and that was the end of the game.
The celebrations were all for Erika, naturally. Caitlyn didn’t join in. She walked back along the court to get some water while the other girls were busy high-fiving their star shooter.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the look that Paul had given Erika after his fight with Adam that morning. That look of triumph, as if he’d done it all for her. Wasn’t it enough that Erika was going out with Tom Barker, captain of the rugby team, two years older and handsome enough to resurrect the dead? Did she have to have everyone else’s boys as well?
The thought of Paul conjured a picture in Caitlyn’s head, a mental snapshot that she kept like a portrait in a locket. The first time she’d seen him, he’d been sitting on the back steps of the theater, reading a book. The sun had been behind him that day, a low January sun shining over the wall that encircled the Mortingham campus, and he’d been wrapped up in a coat.
Caitlyn had been heading to drama class, walking quickly and purposefully. The sight of him had brought her to a stop. To this day, she didn’t know why. He just struck something in her. He was so absorbed, so complete, sitting there alone with his book. His black hair had been stirring against his forehead in the chill wind, and the sun cast long shadows across the tarmac that lay between them.
Then he’d looked up, and his gaze had met hers, and there was something so bleak and haunted in those gray eyes that he’d seemed like something otherworldly. Caitlyn knew then that he was wounded somehow, and felt an urge to help him, to understand him. But she didn’t know how, and all she could offer was a shy smile.
After a moment, he’d smiled back. It did nothing to ease the sadness she felt surrounding him, but it made her heart pound anyway. Then she’d put her head down and hurried away, her chest tight and her cheeks hot.
Later, she spotted him in a corridor and discovered the title of the book he was carrying. The Chrysalids, by John Wyndham. She’d bought it and read it herself, mining the text for clues and connections, seeking a route into his mind.
Eventually, she talked to him, and they became passing acquaintances, if not exactly friends. But what she didn’t know then was that she was already too late. Paul’s attention had been caught by Erika, and while she was around he’d never be interested in another.
The youngest of four girls, Caitlyn had spent her whole life competing and losing. Alex was the pretty one, Sadie was skilled at everything she tried her hand at, Joanne had all the brains, and Caitlyn … Caitlyn was just average. Moderately talented, moderately good at school, moderately attractive. Everything she tried to do at Mortingham Academy had been done before, and better, by her older sisters.
When Joanne transferred to an exclusive London prep school, it was the happiest day of Caitlyn’s life. Since the start of term, Caitlyn had had Mortingham to herself. At last, she had the chance to step out of the shadow of her siblings. At last she might make a mark, distinguish herself, rise above second best.
But then there was Erika. Everywhere Caitlyn looked, Erika was in her way.
She should have thrown that ball at her face.
Miss Watson gave a short team talk and then sent them to the locker room. On the way, Soraya caught up with Caitlyn.
“Good game, huh? You were aces, as always.”
“Yeah, it was fun,” said Caitlyn, brightening. It was hard to stay in a bad mood with Soraya around. She always told you exactly what you wanted to hear.
“You should totally try out for the county team.”
&
nbsp; “Oh, shut up,” said Caitlyn with a smile.
“Just saying,” Soraya declared innocently.
Erika jogged up between them and swung her arms over their shoulders, pulling them all together. “I’m hanging out with Tom and his friends at lunch,” she said, her voice low as if she were delivering a dreadful secret. “Don’t leave me alone with them.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, would we, Caitlyn?” Soraya said, her dark eyes lighting up at the thought of all those older boys.
“Oh, no,” said Caitlyn with a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Great. See you after,” said Erika, and she slipped off ahead of them to get to the showers first.
Caitlyn watched her go with a mental sigh. Hanging out with the rugby crowd again. Most of the girls in her year would have killed to be in her position, but for Caitlyn it meant another lunch break full of forced laughter and fake smiles.
Sometimes it was hard work being best friends with your worst enemy.
“Got. Got. Need. Got. Need. Need!”
Andrew practically squealed at the sight of a six-headed hydra slapping down on top of the deck of trading cards. A satisfied smirk passed across Graham’s face and he gave an evil cackle. Presumably he was trying to approximate the dreadful laugh of some kind of Dark Lord, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he was actually a massive nerd.
“And what will you give me for this fine beast?” he asked. “Oh, wait, I seem to remember you have a particularly rare Cradlejack card in your possession….”
Mark paid his friends no attention. Monster trading cards. Honestly. Mark loved a good acid-belching swamp troll as much as the next guy, but there were some things you just didn’t do in public when you were fifteen years old. Not if you ever hoped to land a girlfriend, anyway.
Girlfriend? Don’t get ahead of yourself. One step at a time. Stick to the plan.
Yes, the plan. Mark remembered the flowchart he’d drawn up. His personal map out of geekdom. It’d be a hard path, he knew that. But now that he had a plan, he felt like anything was possible.